


Ball in Hand

by Cyphomandra



Category: Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyphomandra/pseuds/Cyphomandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fortunately, Tom's interpersonal skills are better than his pool-playing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ball in Hand

**Author's Note:**

> For picfor1000 2016. Thanks to china_shop for beta.
> 
> This is a postscript to my earlier story, _An Unwilling Heart_ , and takes place in the same universe a few months later.

**New York, December 1976**

Carl's break scattered the balls but didn't sink any. Tom selected a cue and hefted it thoughtfully before repeating the process with the next. Satisfied, he gripped his choice firmly, chalked the tip with a few brisk strokes, blew the excess dust free in a puff of blue and approached the table. He put his left hand on the felt, fingertips tense against the rough surface, and slid his legs wider apart as he leaned forward. He drew the cue with him, rubbing it lightly along the groove between his jutting out thumb and index finger until the tip almost touched the smooth ivory of the cue ball.

"Are you going to play or just generate sexual innuendo?" Carl enquired.

Tom pressed his lips close together to hide his smile. "I have no idea what you mean," he said, and widened his stance a little more, moving his weight from foot to foot. He could feel Carl's focus of attention shift.

Tom took his shot. The cue ball hit the two just where he'd planned, sending it spinning down toward the corner pocket - where it paused on the brink. The fluorescent light overhead flickered disparagingly.

"My turn," Carl said, and pocketed the two with insulting ease before executing a more technical but equally successful bank shot that sunk another ball and set up the next with precise thunks.

Tom sighed heavily and stood back. So much for distraction.

Still, the time together was worthwhile. Tom's move to New York hadn't come with new acting contacts to replace the ones he'd built up in L.A., and he was doing bar work now to make ends meet. Working nights, auditioning days, sleeping occasionally and, not least, the demands of wizardry, didn't leave a lot of time for hanging out with his new boyfriend. Carl was equally squeezed, between the radio work and his newly reconciled family. They'd insisted Carl move back home as well, which - well. Carl was happy, so Tom was happy, but it put a serious cramp in their sex lives.

The pool hall was in the basement of the building Carl's radio station operated out of, and had become their default rendezvous. If either of them had a free moment - this was a 3 pm "lunch break" for Carl, pre-shift for Tom - they sent a message through the Manual, and met up for a game. On good days, they managed to continue elsewhere.

Currently Tom was at three games to Carl's thirty-seven. He was doing much better on their aftermatch activities. 

"So," Carl said, standing back to let Tom contemplate an unhelpful arrangement that put the eight ball in the middle of his best shot. "I wanted to ask you something."

Tom missed the eight entirely and sunk the cue ball instead. Carl fished it out of the pocket and tossed it back to him.

"And you blame me for distractions," Tom said. He studied Carl for clues. Hair a mess, only to be expected given the way he tugged at it when he was working, moustache in need of a trim, ridiculous rollneck navy sweater he insisted was hip, outta sight and Tom was just hopelessly unappreciative of it because he'd never lived in a place with actual climate - Tom gave up and looked him in the eye. "Yeah?"

"Is the heating back on at your place yet?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Yes. For a whole thirty minutes at 4am this morning, and then nothing. I have had various conversations with - " he edited for possible listeners - "various Concerned Individuals, and apparently effective heating in my building might promote entropy."

He'd also spent nearly two hours arguing with the building's furnace about renewable energy sources and gotten nowhere. Temperatures outside hadn't made it out of the 20s all week. Macchu Picchu was currently on a wizarding sabbatical in Rio, but Carl was still too busy with the Grand Central gate to indulge in a similar getaway, and Tom wasn't going without him.

Carl frowned. "You could," he said, and stopped. "I mean. Well."

"Well what?" Tom was beginning to wonder if it was something serious. Carl looked a thousand times better than he had when Tom had first met him, but that didn't mean something else hadn't gone wrong. "Are you okay?"

Carl shut his eyes, muttered something briefly in Italian, and opened them again. "You could move in with me," he said, glaring at Tom. "I'm moving out again."

"I thought your family was okay with everything?" Tom said. If they weren't, then no wonder Carl was upset. "That's not fair -"

"Sorry," Carl said, cutting him off. "You're right. You've got your acting to work on. You don't need any distractions." He picked up the pool cue and stomped back to the table.

Tom felt as though he'd taken a step along a city sidewalk and pitched down a manhole. Then again - he knew Carl had insecurities about Tom's greater experience, and while they were needless from Tom's point of view, he knew that that didn't help when you were looking in the opposite direction. He hadn't been expecting this conversation, but that didn't mean he didn't welcome it.

He followed Carl over to the pool table where he'd sunk all the remaining solids, leaned over and picked up the eight ball before Carl could finish the game. Carl, startled, looked back at him. Tom held his gaze.

"I'd love," Tom said, "to live with you. Doubly so if it's someplace warm."

The corner of Carl's mouth curled. "You're sure?" he said. "Because I have these suburban dreams, about poplar hedges and patios and fishponds… "

It was partly teasing, partly a question, and partly a declaration. Something permanent.

Like taking the Oath.

This felt equally inevitable. Tom whispered something in the Speech, and held up the eight-ball. Its surface fogged, and then cleared, words emerging letter by letter from the inky depths to appear in front of Carl.

_Without a doubt._

THE END


End file.
